Relative Grays
by Necrononymous
Summary: One botched mission was all it took to change everything. Between life and death, wrong and right, Chris struggles to come to terms with fate. Chris/Wesker
1. Confinement

**A/N**: This story is meant to be quite a bit longer, and I hope to be updating it very soon, but I'd like to have opinions back on it, especially so early on to avoid any crucial mistakes. I rarely write lengthy stories, so I need to know how I'm doing and will take criticism, good or bad, into account, so long as it isn't a flame. I'll try to respond to comments in the author's notes of the next page to let you know what I thought, and of course, thank you! This is set after RE5 and (incoming spoiler) plays out according to RE1-5, with the exception of Wesker's death in the fifth installment. The ending this story takes into account will not be such a happy one, but there will be a lot of references to RE1 if things play out as I have planned so far. Well, enjoy and comment.

**DISCLAIMER**: **I do not own Resident Evil or make a profit off of this work. Resident Evil(Biohazard) and its respective characters are copyright of Capcom.**

**RELATIVE GRAYS**

**Chapter One: Confinement**

He sat up quickly, breathing hard, sheets plastered to his damp skin. It was like a reoccurring nightmare he couldn't wake up from, because the nightmare was reality. And that reality was the solitary white room around him, ever unchanging. The bed he laid in was supported by a low silver metal frame, mattress thin and unpleasantly hard, barely long enough to keep his feet from hanging over the end. On it was a sheet, a slightly thicker sheet over that, and a mashed pillow (all also white) which was now soiled by another cold sweat. The entirety of the dull ensemble was aligned long ways against a wall of the room, across from the wall where a similarly plain desk had been set.

The desk, however, did at least offer a small dash of color to the room. Parallel to a stack of white paper, as the geometrical aestheticism of the place would have it—was a small tray of colored pencils which served as a medium through which to 'express' himself. When he'd finally been allowed such a luxury, it had only succeeded in making him feel like a child. But even so, he'd found himself to be a real budding artist and writer when days went by without so much as a break in routine or minimal human contact.

Isolation and observation: that was what he figured he was in this room for. But for how long? He hadn't seen sunlight in weeks, months; there wasn't a clock in the room, let alone a calendar, and the days were starting to run together. The few whispers of human voices he caught when dinner was served through a sliding panel in the wall by the cell door were more precious to him than eating itself. At least, that was before he'd stubbornly refused to eat upon first waking up in the room. He thought someone might be forced to come in, and then he'd figure out just what the hell was going on, and why he was in this damned room. But no one had ever come. He'd even tried childishly keeping the dinner trays from being taken away by the mysterious staff too, but every time he stowed one away in his room, he wouldn't receive any food until he returned it; so that hadn't worked either.

What bothered him most was the camera in the corner of the room, high enough that if he stood on his chair and bed combined, it was just out of reach. Sometimes, he'd notice the camera whir and turn from its default position and knew somewhere the thing was being manually controlled during certain instances, especially if he was doing something 'unusual.'

The red light on its face blinked like an eye watching him, and it was. Because of this, he had spent a lot of time in the adjoined bathroom for the necessity of privacy until he realized that he could see that same flashing red eye in a single black panel set into the bathroom's ceiling when the fluorescents were turned off during sleeping hours, which lasted for exactly eight hours (he assumed), and was the only means of keeping track of how much time was actually passing in the cell.

Today promised to be the same as the previous, and already he could see a fresh towel and rag folded neatly on the counter of the service door to the left of the entrance to his cell, along with a new bar of soap of no particular brand or scent, which he received at the start of every month; another tiny detail that helped him schedule his time spent in isolation. It helped instill a sense of normality in him, at the least. A bar of soap marked a month, fresh sheets marked a week, and a change of clothes came daily. He never received more or less than he needed, though sometimes less if he didn't cooperate. The sheets, he'd learned, only came again if he sent the ones he was replacing down a laundry chute in his bathroom in advance, and he wondered if he was using the same circulated sheets.

There were other things too, like toothpaste and toilet paper, all of which came in a timely and predictable fashion. He was even allotted disposable razors for shaving, which surprised the hell out of him. But someone outside of the cell knew he wasn't the type to try suicide as an escape, which was the source of much uneasiness during his ruminating about who was keeping him locked away and why.

He swung his legs slowly over the edge of the bed and pressed his bare feet to the cold tiles of the floor, holding his head in his hands as he mulled over the events of the night, or rather, those of his dreams. Since he'd woken up in the white room, things particular to his past had been muddled. He knew that he'd always drive a Ford over a Chevy, and he remembered brunettes made pretty women, and how to season a mean sirloin on a George Forman's. He knew stranger things too, like the smell of sulfur and the feel of a high-caliber pistol as it kicked, or how to properly use reticles on a long-range rifle scope to estimate a target's distance.

But he couldn't remember _why _he knew these things. Particularly, events synonymous with his career seemed the most elusive. On the other hand, less complex and baser thoughts came easier. More often than not, his dreams were filled with the things he _felt_ during a sequence of events, rather than the events themselves. Nothing was stranger than waking up pissed off or afraid for your life with no idea why. It was frustrating, and again he'd woken up with his heart racing, chest tight with no explanation—just the sensation itself.

Things were starting to come back to him, though, and with every little revelation of something previously forgotten, his patience was renewed. Chris Redfield, he'd remembered, was his name; he even remembered his age and birthday. He'd yet to place a name to the man and woman that frequented his dreams, though. All he knew was that when he thought about the woman, he felt a strange sort of happy and sad; but nothing like the intensity of the male, whose eyes always seemed to manifest themselves as inky blots or shadows. He couldn't quite figure out how he felt then, but the strength of it turned his stomach. Seemed like rage mostly, but other times, it was akin to obsession; the kind that could make you love something you hate and hate things you love. Hell, maybe it was a blessing he couldn't remember what he'd forgotten, if his emotions were any indication.

To tell the truth, he was just so damn tired; tired of fighting the demons in his sleep of a past he couldn't remember, only to wake up to the sharp, dull contrast of the tiny eight-by-twelve cell he'd dubbed "The White Room" early on in his stay. And judging by his soap ledger, he'd just started up his third month.

Chris unenthusiastically got out of bed at last and moved to the desk a few steps across the room where he attempted to keep a make-shift calendar. On a fresh new page for the third month, he scrawled: "Soap three, sheet one, day one: Same dreams, new day. No response to the dog I drew on the wall yet, but holdin' out. Hope beans aren't for dinner."

Then he discarded his used towel down the laundry chute and stocked the fresh on its allotted shelf(one of two by the inlaid mirror), remembering idly his plan he devised to squeeze into the obviously too-small space as a means of escape during one of his more desperately impractical moments. He wondered if the person on the other end of the camera noticed him ever looking at the chute in longing awe, pretending he was a dirty sheet sliding away to freedom. Or maybe just to some meticulous laundry room that proved as dull and fool proof as his own room.

Chris turned with weary conviction towards the black panel of his bathroom ceiling, from behind which another camera observed his every waking moment. He offered it his middle finger, and spoke more to himself than it. "Hey, Asshole. Why don't you send some books up with my dinner, next time? Or better yet, porn." He waited, as if the panel might respond, but his antagonizing was ignored as always. "*Two* whole months, it's been now. Two months…" _And I'm not sure how much more I can stand._

Chris was dumbstruck to find, later that day, a novel did in fact come with his dinner, as per request. Hell, there weren't even any beans. He wasn't sure if he was thrilled to be obliged by the mysterious staff that catered to him, or disturbed. He didn't want to think the camera could hear him too; he personified the thing in his mind enough as is.

**************

"A book…?" The woman raised her thin eyebrows, genuinely surprised. "I think that might give him the wrong impression." She waited, looking uncertainly at the man settled behind the desk she stood before. He seemed uninterested for a moment, and then he finally looked away from the screen of his computer and offered her his full attention.

"Are you insinuating that my decision is a poor one?"

The woman only tightened her lips, but held his perceptive gaze. She knew he was not asking her a question.

"The 'impression' we're trying to give here isn't one of inhumanity. Isolation is just a necessary—and temporary—process he has to complete. It's been long enough." And then he added, with a small gesture towards the monitor, "He's ready."

"You're sure? Yes, I suppose you are." She seemed to hesitate for a moment, but was too forthright to remain quiet completely. "It's just he's been so deprived of any stimulation for so long, and in his condition, anything could cause an undesired response and set things back. If you say he's ready, though, he is."

The man shifted in his seat, leaning back now and considering the woman before him. His face was unreadable as he did so, and she didn't try to guess as to what he was thinking.

"I respect your opinions. You've always been cautious by nature, and that is what I like about you. Though in this man's case, I'm aware of exactly what I'm dealing with. More than I might care to be." He seemed almost entranced by the screen before him now. The woman looked puzzled for a moment, and he continued. "Life's little surprises, I mean. They can be intriguing."

"Yes, I guess they are."

He smiled and looked back towards her. It was brief then gone again, back to business.

"Make sure you steer clear of war, anything in the military genre really, at least factual or too modern. I trust you'll find something from our library. Oh, and no poetry."

"Why no poetry?"

"Not the type."

When she lingered a moment too long, he dismissed her with a quick glance, and she nodded and left. As she walked, she thought curiously on Chris and what kind of history he must have had with her employer to catch the man's eye. She'd rarely seen him take much interest in anything outside of his own goals, let alone another human being. Not that he was a selfish man, just passionate. But, so was Chris, though in a wholly different direction. It was a fascinating thing to her, people's differences, and how they sometimes tied two people together more intricately than any similarities.

* * *

_Charred debris rose against a red-hot sky like black snow, lifted high by the immense heat below. With the heavens laid thick in clouds of ash, the only source of light came from the peak of the mountain, its apex gaping like a great flaming maw. It was all he could see, the sky, but he knew he was near the mouth of the volcano, because his skin was aching, He was keenly aware that a blister had rose on his ear and hand, even though he could not see or feel them yet._

_He tried to breathe only to have his lungs filled with hot ash again; like the pieces that fluttered by and landed on his skin to cool, scorching little holes through his battered shirt and pants, leaving a bad odor as it burned his Kevlar. There was another smell too: a pungent reek that made him wonder how many of the ashes he'd licked off his lips had been flakes of human flesh. But he tried not to think about it, tried not to think at all. At first, he couldn't believe that he'd been incapacitated, had really _lost,_ but as his partner's screaming fell quiet and his vision went black, the realization engulfed him—along with the strange sensation of someone clutching him and breathing raggedly into his ear. "Chris, Chris!"_

_"Chris…" More distant now._

He opened his eyes, but could only make out the minuscule red flashing light of the camera when he was conscious enough to look to the corner it blinked at him from. He was sweating, but at least hadn't been startled awake. The book he'd been given sat unread on the floor by his bed. In his hand was the letter from the envelop that had been placed between pages 253 and 254 of the book. He'd been reading it again when he'd dozed off, unsure of why he was reading it again and wishing he hadn't after suffering his most lucid dream yet.

But it was like he couldn't help it, and despite himself, he brought the letter close to his face again and breathed deeply. Gods… Something that smelled mighty fine had been sprayed on it, and the first time he'd accidentally gotten a whiff, his gray standard-issue slacks felt like they were…well, a lot less _slack. _He must have been aching for some human contact more than he thought if he was getting hard over the way something smelled.

The memory of what he had been doing just before he'd taken his nap came sharply back to him, and he felt warmth spread across his face and in his stomach. He remembered reading the note, discovering the scent, getting an erection, then everything spiraling down from there. He'd never been so mindlessly aroused in his life, and even though it was midday and the camera had started its manual observation, he couldn't stop his hand from snaking between his spread legs and under the soft hem of his pants for a little one-on-one with himself. But that wasn't the real kicker. What had his mind really blown, now that he was coherent and in a fairly neutral mood to reminisce, was how long he'd kept on that painfully pleasurable edge of orgasm. Something that intense should have finished him in record time, but right when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, it just kept going. And hell, by the time he'd finally relieved himself, he felt like he'd ran a marathon. It was the most satisfying exhaustion he'd ever known, all thanks to some odoriferous letter.

"Chris, you're really losing it now. And I just proved it by referring to myself in third." Chris groaned and sat up, hissing as his feet hit the cold floor. Right now was normally the time he thought about the day being miraculously as hopeless and boring as those before it(yet somehow expecting it not to be), but it wasn't going to be the same. Everything in his life, though he wagered that probably wasn't much,now revolved around that damn good-smelling, perfectly-written, unsigned letter he held in his hand still. He was almost more eager to meet who had written it rather than excited about simply getting to leave his cell for a time.

Yes, today was the day he got to go outside of his room, got to see real people, got to find out what the hell was going on! Chris couldn't shower, eat, and wait more anxiously than he was. In the letter, he'd been informed by the mysterious writer that he'd be visited and escorted shortly after dinner to be debriefed, and that he should ready himself. It was vague, but promised information and that everything he'd suffered up to this point had been sincerely necessary; and because he wanted so bad to believe that there was a logical reason behind his captivity, and because the letter was written so persuasively, he did believe it.

Finally, the moment came. He jumped with surprise as a part of the door he'd previously not realized could open, was opened. He heard the weight of the panel as it slid, offering a hole in the door about waist high. He heard shuffling, then an efficient male voice spoke.

"Place your hands through the door, side by side." When the man on the other side of the door heard no response in the following seconds, he repeated himself, but with controlled intensity. Chris, worried he'd lose his opportunity to leave his room, finally obliged. He heard metal clinking, then felt its unyielding cold around his wrist. "Alright, withdraw your hands and step back from the door." Chris did this too, seeing the cuffs on his hands as he withdrew them, immensely heavy and connected by a thick bar. He'd never seen cuffs so large before, and wondered why they were needed. But he could worry about that later, because the door to his cell, the one he'd not seen open once in all his time there, was now fully ajar, and his heart started racing.

There was a man, the one who he would later realize had been talking to him, in white scrubs with a name tag he didn't read and a balding head and weary face. He was neutral to Chris' wide-eyed awe at his open cell door. The woman accompanying them, however, smiled with understanding and made a gesture for him to come stand beside her. She seemed mid-thirties, dark hair pulled tightly back in an efficient and smart bun streaked with a few gray hairs. Chris was lost looking at her for a moment, memorizing the lines by her eyes and mouth from laughing. She wore a loose coat over her scrubs and held a clipboard with papers.

"Chris?" she said, raising her eyebrows and waiting with a smile. Chris walked out, slowly, overwhelmed. He heard her crisp voice again, but didn't look towards her. She stepped in front of where he was staring, cutting off his view of the long hall. "Chris, how are you feeling?" She pressed for a response. Probably making sure he wasn't going to have a fit of crazy. He finally looked at her.

"Feeling? Feeling glad I didn't forget how to talk and walk in that damn cell," he replied bitterly.

"I know it's been hard, I really do, but it was a necessary precaution. You'll understand soo—"

"Yeah, so I've been told. So make me understand," he interjected with passion. The woman, "Carol" by her name tag, only nodded.

"Patience. First we need to have a quick checkup, make sure there are no abnormalities," she said with a look towards the other man beside her as she began to lead Chris down the hall, which remained oddly unoccupied. They passed several doors like his own.

"'Abnormalities'?" That made Chris nervous.

"Just procedure to make sure patients coming out of isolation are healthy. Your case was a bit…unusual. In how you arrived here, that is."

"Special case? How did I get here? Why can't I remember some things? Why did I have to be put into isolation?" It was like once he started asking, he couldn't stop, but Carol interrupted him, and he stopped his interrogation.

"All this will be revealed to you, but not just this moment, and not all at once. You're suffering a minor case of amnesia, something we see a lot in cases similar to yours, and you'll recover in time. They all do. As you are recovering, you're state is very fragile, even if you don't realize it. However, if you cooperate, you can be fully rehabilitated and back to normality. You've done remarkably well, considering!"

At Carol's enthusiasm, he turned to look at her and scowled. "Yeah, I bet that makes your part in this mess easier, doesn't it?"

Carol only sighed, and added a note of empathy to her voice. Chris wasn't sure how genuine it was. "I know you must be angry, not knowing why all this is happening, but our intentions for you, mine included, are for your best. Oh, we're here. Please, come inside."

The three of them entered a small doctor's office where things continued in silence, Chris taking a moment to maul over what little he'd learned since the woman didn't seem ready to divulge more and was getting frustrated with his questions. She had him step on a scale, which he was shocked to find he weighed 25 pounds less than the last time he remembered his weight. Two vials of blood were drawn, and his eyes, ears, and reflexes were all tested. It was a normally boring process that became entirely more fascinating after extreme isolation.

He noticed the woman taking particular note of his skin, whispering some positive remark in response to it. He wondered what about it was so "remarkable," but didn't ask. Finally, after watching Carol feverishly write something on her clipboard then type some information into the computer mounted on the desk in the corner of the room, they left.

"Alright, that's all for that. We're going to--" but a small device he'd previously not seen, hidden inside of her coat, crackled to life; and she handed her clipboard to the balding man accompanying her to take out the communicator, listening just as a voice came through.

"_Is he with you?" _Chris heard the male voice ask on the other end, and was instantly drawn to the sound. "Yes, we just finished testing." Carol spoke carefully. Chris assumed the man was her superior by her tone. Or just genuinely frightening.

"_Ah, and?"_

The voice, it was so…

"Only some minimal weight loss."

It made him feel…

_"Excellent. Let me speak with him."_

Chris realized what the voice had just requested, and felt a knot form in his throat. He only had a moment to look surprised, because Carol was too, before she held the device towards him so he could hear it better, though he was unable to use it himself because of the cuffs. He waited for the longest few seconds of his life before the communicator hissed again, and that voice he felt like he knew droned from the speaker. It was different now though, more smooth and heavy, every accented word a lance of pleasure through his center, and he wondered if the man did it on purpose, but thought that wasn't possible.

"_Christopher," _he'd practically whispered, as if Chris' very name was some elicit secret. "_I'm pleased to finally be seeing you soon." _And the voice was gone, leaving Chris with the strangest sensation not unlike the one the mysterious letter had caused him earlier that day. He was so shaken and infatuated with the feeling creeping over him that he hadn't even connected the two in his head. But he didn't like the phenomenon in retrospect, how easily it possessed him. It wasn't normal, and the idea of something having that much control over him was something he didn't take kindly to.

Carol watched as Chris went rigid and silent, then as his face flushed in the slightest. There was something going on behind the scenes that she wasn't made aware of, and she was inclined to believe this if they weren't the symptoms of—No, it was just too unlikely. Not the Director. Still, it was something to make note of.


	2. Two Faced Troubles

A/N: Things are crawling along. Warning for sexual situations. Nothing too explicit.

**RELATIVE GRAYS**

**Chapter Two: Two-Faced Troubles**

_Chris stared down the length of the indoor range, at the target, then at the baffles, thoughts drifting. He was just ready to go home, but his Captain insisted otherwise—at least if Chris had any intention of staying Point Man, and hell if someone else was more able than he was. For the umpteenth time, he prepared to empty another clip into a fresh target. But he was tired, stance sloppy, and his Captain didn't miss a beat._

_Chris almost squeezed out a round when he felt his Captain step up behind him, kicking the foot he was leaning off of further away from the other. His arms were involuntarily lifted, elbows bent. One hand steadied his aim while the other tugged at his earmuffs and let them fall around his neck. The world of noise, his Captain's sudden presence, seemed distinctly loud now._

_"Have you ever held a pistol before, Chris?" he heard him say, breathing the words impatiently against the back of his ear._

_"I'm tired. My shift ended two hours ago," Chris said, openly unhappy about the overtime._

_"Your shift is over when I say. Now show me I didn't make a mistake choosing you."_

_The man felt Chris tense and scowl; Chris knew his Captain had smiled, and it only made him angrier. _

_Chris unloaded the clip into the target, not bothering to pull his earmuffs back on, despite the rule to do so. He hoped that little detail annoyed his Captain, who was painfully by the book. By his own, anyways. His ears rang slightly when the last cartridge missed its target. Chris groaned and leaned his head back, then quickly jerked it away from the shoulder it brushed. His Captain was looking past, still close behind, quietly observing the target which belied his subordinate's poor performance, and with it, Chris' increasing frustration._

_"Need to reign in that temper, Christopher, or you won't be very reliable on the field."_

_Chris frowned. He'd done it one purpose. He wanted to turn and knock his Captain a good—or two--but he knew, after some length of consideration, that would be admitting defeat, more so to himself. He wouldn't indulge the man so far._

_"Come on, the rest were damn near perfect! And let's be frank, I can outshoot any man in this department. Why do you think I'm going to get out there and—" Chris practically choked when he felt his Captain's hands fall on his hips as he pressed closer from behind._

_"I don't, but I know about that hot head of yours."_

_"What are you doing," Chris said quickly, leaning away and feeling the hands tighten against it._

_"What are we, shy now? I'd hate to think these two hours have amounted to nothing more than mediocre accuracy." When Chris didn't respond verbally, the man whose face still remained out of eyeshot moved a palm over his quivering stomach while the other massaged its fingers into Chris' hip through thick denim. Chris felt the man flush against him from behind, the partition pressing into his thighs in front. He was scared, really scared. His career, pride, and will were suddenly on the line, and he was not a compromising man. But neither was his Captain._

_All the second glances, insignificant brushes, and strict scrutiny was concluding, and while some twisted little notion, mutual or otherwise, was finally coming to fruition, all Chris could think was, _Oh, shit…

And then his consciousness collected itself enough to be aware of a loud jarring sound and someone yelling. He sat up quickly awake and thinking he was glad to be. Or so he thought initially.

"Chris, Chris! Good heavens, you weren't still asleep, were you?"

"Jesus, lady," Chris barked back finally. He was slow to wake—never a morning person—and the nurse now in a frenzy about his room was a sure-fire way to wake up on the wrong side of the bed.

For the most part ignoring her, Chris had started towards the bathroom; but he didn't get very far before a small but albeit secure hand had caught him by the collar of his shirt, making him feel like a disobedient school boy.

"Oh no you don't. We're on a schedule here, Redfield, and I won't be reprimanded again for YOUR tardiness," Carol said sharply, then after a moment of collecting herself—"Which is why *that* was given to you to begin with," she finished, gesturing pointedly to the forgotten alarm clock on the desk.

Chris gave the small battery-powered clock a once-over, appearing not to register the flawless logic Nurse Carol had taken it upon herself to offer him.

Really, the man was a nuisance. He was stubborn, uncompromising, and for the lack of modesty, not very bright. Whatever the Director saw in him, she couldn't know. But she guessed that was the nature of an acquaintance born in hard times. The man's experience and assets were undoubtedly synonymous with a wholly different life style than she was accustomed; and she figured where she had been educated inside a classroom, Chris had been educated by the battlefield. He had about him an estranged sort of air (not unlike the Director himself)as if there was some gap between them and the rest of society that had been gouged away which simply could never be bridged.

Thank god she wasn't their therapist!

Carol ushered Chris quickly out of the room, who had time to neither brush his teeth nor flatten his cowlick beforehand, though he did give the latter an earnest effort as they set a brisk pace down the long, white hall. A man dressed in matching white with a scowl barely offered them a glance as he passed, gray semi-circle of hair plastered to his balding scalp with a coat pocket tucked full of dark pens. If anything, Chris was thankful his escort was a little livelier. Though not something he was eager to wake up to, the woman's energy gave his lifeless surroundings and routine a bit of humanity.

"So do I get out of that room today, or what? It's been a week."

"Well, yes. You will be relocated today now that the preliminary examinations are through." Chris felt a jolt of excitement grab hold of him. "But first you'll have to meet with the counselor. He'll brief you and give you your clearance and ID card. Today is a big day for you, and to think you intended to sleep right through it. Director would have had my neck—speaking of which, you're to see him just after your meeting with the counselor. He'll accompany you there."

"No handcuffs, but I still can't shake the babysitter?" Chris said with a wide smirk.

"Your behavior has been well and good, but underestimating our patients is a mistake we don't make. And anyways, the counselor is not so bad," Carol managed to force out in a tight voice. Chris lifted a brow at her, and she seemed genuinely surprised that the 'simpleton' had caught her little lie. The irony was not lost on her.

"You know, I still don't know where 'here' is. You promised I'd know what the hell I was doing here soon enough, and it's been a week and I still can't say I'm anymore informed than when I woke up here. Why the hell are you treating me like some dangerous fugitive? Flattering as it is, I don't think I'd have much luck with any disaster and escape plans. Would have tried by now, if I knew I had a chance. Nothing personal, of course."

Nurse Carol sighed and gave Chris an irritated glare. The lack of an answer both annoyed and unnerved him. The subject of himself was becoming a rather mysterious and uncomfortable topic. Chris let it slide, again, as they stepped into the elevator. Still, he couldn't help feeling like he wasn't going to like the answers, when he finally got them.

The elevator ride was short and quiet as they traveled up to the next floor, on the level of—Chris couldn't be sure due the elevator's digital panel which, it seemed, had abandoned the archaic system of marking floors with numbers, and instead had names that coincided with the floor's function. It was frustrating, not even knowing how high up (or how far down) you were. He thought to ask, but didn't want to feel like an idiot.

When the doors opened to reveal the next floor they'd arrived on, Chris saw what he'd expected. He'd been once a day for the past week, sometimes for extensive periods. Though the interior was as orderly and clean as the medical ward(so he figured it was, with all those white suits scurrying around), this floor wasn't completely devoid of charm. In fact, it was quite homey, like the interior of a well-furnished office with Georgian symmetry and Victorian accents—at least to those who enjoyed that frou-frou European feel..

The floor was composed of varnished African blackwood, cyma moldings tucked along the walls as ornate baseboards underneath a short places, a long rug was tacked to the floor, printed with reds and tans that fit the warmly lit halls, luminaires offering incandescent light along the way from their brass fixtures. The walls themselves were, for the most part, left bare, but the rooms—at least the one he'd seen—were hung with classical paintings or tapestries. Were it not for the occasional camera or plaque regarding the door it was posted by, Chris would have sworn he had been torn right out of the modern age. It gave him the urge to sit real proper and drink tea. Or probably should have.

He certainly preferred it to the sterile environment of the hospice, if only because he was in that damn room for so long; but there was something about the rich wood floors and all-around gilded feel of the place that disquieted him. It reminded him of the fear of suffocating, but he couldn't understand the nostalgia. Even in his dreams, there would sometimes happen a place not too different, a mansion; and it engulfed him in endless twisting halls that promised no way out.

"We're here," Carol said, rousing Chris from his thoughts. "Just go right in. I've got some things to see to, so I won't be seeing you again today. At least, if all goes well." She gave Chris a look of warning and was walking back in the direction they came, staring anxiously at the watch on her wrist. If Chris didn't look the part of a patient and things weren't run on such a tight schedule, he might have considered taking the liberty of exploring, but he knew within a few minutes, his absence would raise hell. So, he turned to face the doors. A plaque beside them read "Counselor Williams," the old fart he'd been dealing with for far too long already. If anyone made him feel like he was crazy (and sometimes he wondered himself), it was Williams. He even noticed that Nurse Carol found quick excuses not to escort him all the way inside, despite that he felt she was probably supposed to.

The office was medium-sized, occupied by two desks and some filing cabinets. A round tan rug covered most of the floor, spots nearly bare from the worrying of chair legs, particularly the red-cushioned ones Chris was confined to for the length of the conference. A few framed degrees in psychology and philosophy were mounted airily on the back wall behind Williams' desk; something Chris was sure made him feel quite self-important.

Having heard his door open and shut, the counselor was already hobbling into the main office from an adjoining room, beady eyes staring suspiciously at Chris behind thick, half-moon spectacles. Chris thought he looked something like a large fruit, plump and practically bursting from the seams of his tailored suit. He could have just been hungry too, though the man was more apt to dampen his appetite than otherwise. Breakfast, when was breakfast?

"Redfield," he was saying as he grunted with the effort it took to heft himself into his chair behind his desk. "Well, sit!" he huffed finally when Chris just continued to stand in the doorway, reluctant and jaded, hungry.

Chris silently found a seat and dropped himself into it, watching as Williams began digging through desk drawers. Paperwork. Forms, tests, questionnaires. He wanted instantly to go back to sleep.

"Don't look so grouchy, Redfield; no tests today." Well, that was good; but Chris kept scowling, counting how long it took for the counselor to lose his temper again. The man had a short fuse, and at the end of it was not a bomb, but a good laugh—for Chris anyways. He'd really gotten impatient with Chris' questions, and even though answers were in short supply, the red-faced Williams had made his day. "You are _required_ to read these. They'll explain the fine print of what I'm going to be going over with you, as well as list important contacts and how to reach them, such as Nurse Carol. I've got—" Williams started, digging back through his drawer again, "—your ID and clearance card here. You are to keep both on you at all times, _no_ exceptions. Chris, are you listening?"

"Uh-huh," was all Chris managed, intent on his dagger-staring.

"Your ID is self explanatory, but your clearance card will grant you access around the facility where deemed. Most areas in the Central Ward will be accessible to you once we fully activate your card, such as central commons and the academy wing. You'll get a map listing sections with your clearance number. And because I know your type, don't be tempted to try high-clearance doors. Our system logs the 'who, when, and where' when you use that card, and it also is nifty enough to alert us to any funny business and the idiots who attempt it. Not that you'd get farther than swiping your keycard." Williams grinned knowingly, and Chris just sniffed, silently repulsed by the little bulbs of rosacea that had become the man's cheeks. "Which reminds me, some doors also require PINs as well, though I imagine you won't be troubled with that anytime soon, being such low clearance and all. Each floor also has reception for visual identification, which is where you will need your ID if you're changing floors."

Williams sat back and drew in a breath, the chair complaining under his weight. He glanced at the clock, something Chris had noticed he had been doing more frequently today than usual. "Questions?"

"Uh, well, yeah, a shit ton. Why am I here? Why was I in isolation? Where is this 'facility' and what does it have to do with—" Chris was cut off by the sound of Counselor William's fist on his desk.

"Don't you even _start, _or I won't answer so much as to where the damn bathroom is to take a piss, and would you STOP that incessant STARING!" Williams had leaned up from his chair, and was staring vehemently at Chris, beady eyes bulging, buttons ready top pop off his collar. Chris made record time today. "Now, do you have any questions _relevant_ to what I just told you, or so help you god, I'll have you thrown back in isolation."

Chris wanted to shrug it off, push his luck maybe, but he really did have some relevant questions; ones he was uncomfortable not knowing. "Alright… Where's my new room? What's the 'academy,' and why do you keep looking at that damn clock?"

Chris was surprised when the man started to answer, quickly collected. He seemed amused with something Chris didn't know. Which was a lot. "You'll be shown to your room later today, and the academy is an institute of higher learning and physical and mental correction and development. As for the clock, you've a very important engagement I wouldn't dare have you miss." Williams smiled, too comfortable with himself suddenly. Chris experienced the opposite reaction.

"'Mental correction and development'? I don't need correcting, and I'm not crazy."

"_Asylums_ are for the insane, Redfield, and I didn't describe one. Think of it as a school of the future. You should be flattered to be placed in such an advanced program. But, you'll need time to adjust. Not time you have right now, however. The Director is expecting you."

Apprehensively, Chris was lead out of the office, manuals and files tucked messily under his arm with his ID and keycard clutched in the other hand. Chris found himself surprised at how many hallways he was lead down, and knew he would never find his way back to the counselor's office, if for some reason he needed to from that point. He wouldn't miss it, needless to say.

They arrived at a set of locked doors, and Williams took the opportunity to show Chris how to work the keycard, since the door required one. A single swipe unlocked the door, and behind them Chris heard it lock back in place as they were shut. The hall they were in now was decorated with arguably muter colors, and the walls, every few feet or so, bore a picture. Most of them were of elderly men, on occasion a woman, all staring with haggard faces. He assumed they were notable on some account. They all seemed scholarly. A few dates mounted below them were significantly old: 1940's all the way up to the present.

"Who are these paintings of?" Chris asked, forgetting himself a moment.

"Friends of the Director's, I assume." The counselor looked too at the paintings, finding them wholly unpleasant.

"You don't know?" Chris asked, looking over at the short waddling man. He huffed indignantly and squinted.

"Not all of them, no—no one does—but I recognize some more recent faces, particularly Birkin. He was a scientist of considerable reputation before Umbrella collapsed and—" Williams stopped himself nervously. "But don't bother asking the Director. He's not one for chit-chat. In fact, best let him do most of the talking. You should thank me for that bit of advice, you should. Ah, here we are." Williams pressed a button on the mounted intercom by the door. They waited.

"You said 'Umbrella'," Chris posed with a perplexed face. "The pharmaceutical corporation? That was the one with all the lawsuits—biological weapons." As he spoke, words and pieces of his memory seemed to race into place.

Williams seemed stricken, and his eyes darted back and forth. "You remember. I mean, of course…recovery and all, but—" Chris waited for the man to begin explaining, but luck wasn't on his side.

And then finally, in a severe voice, _"Who is it?"_

Williams fumbled with his collar as he spoke. Chris wondered if it had suddenly grown too tight around his chubby neck. "A-ah, Christopher Redfield is here, as scheduled."

"_Right, send him in."_ Chris didn't like the 360 the Director's voice had done just then. Williams seemed to notice too, and offered Chris what might have been a look of pity, if he hadn't known the pudgy man better.

"Good day, then," was all the man said before he waddled off, back to his office apparently eager to leave the hall entirely. Chris was left frozen, feeling small before the large double-doors.

When he finally made to move inside, he stopped, the doors barely ajar. There it was again, that strange sensation. It had been subtle at first; to the point of not realizing it was even there, but now it was as if a switch had been flipped inside of him, and his heart raced. It came on stronger as the air of the office's interior washed over him, and he just couldn't move. His eyes had dilated, and he couldn't goddamn move! There was fear, anticipation, anxiety; and something else that had been swallowed in the mix. He took a moment to steel himself, trying anything but to be the deer standing in the headlights.

Then he suddenly felt embarrassed, exposed. For the first time, he really noticed how absurd he looked, even without the aid of a mirror. He knew he had bags under his eyes from a bad night's rest, a bird's nest for hair, and yesterday's clothes on. He wondered why it suddenly mattered so much. He tried a second time, much more desperately now, to smooth down his cowlick. And then—

_"Redfield, what are you doing?"_

Chris jumped. The intercom had come on again, though he was still oblivious to the camera whirring in the corner, light winking at him. Chris, red-faced, entered the room and shut the doors behind him. His chest hurt with how hard his heart was beating, and he hated the absurdity of it. He wasn't easily unsettled, but now…

"Are you going to come in, or do I have to drag you?" The voice was even more potent in person. "Hand your things to me for now."

It was all Chris could do to wretch his feet from the spot they'd planted themselves and walk awkwardly into the office, against his instincts, towards its center where there was a desk, a chair, and a man seated in said chair, arms at his side and staring quizzically at his visitor across the room, eyes masked by a pair of sunglasses that seemed out of place in the dim room, and yet quite appropriate with the man's face.

"S-sorry," Chris heard himself murmur without intention. Wait, what the hell was he sorry for? Realizing he was a few scant words from hiding shyly behind the chair the man was gesturing towards, he squared his shoulders and stood straight. It wasn't a big deal, and he wouldn't make it one. Stiffly, he set his files and cards on the Director's desk, and then sat; thankful his knees hadn't locked on him. He watched in silence as the man shifted calmly through his things, eyeing something on his ID and turning towards his monitor briefly. And then ultimately, Chris himself. But he didn't say anything; he just leaned forward on his elbows, stared, and exercised the 5th amendment.

Chris didn't like that at all. Or more accurately, he didn't like how it made his stomach clench. The weight of those eyes, ones he couldn't even see no less, was crushing him in the silence. Desperately, he wanted to interrupt the quiet, just interrupt!

"Uh, so, what's up?" was his lame solution.

"'What's up'?" Chris heard the man repeat amusedly, managing only to move his lips in all of his unnatural stillness.

Chris knew when he was being laughed at, and he instantly bristled and replied more harshly than he'd expected, "Yeah, as in, what the hell am I doing here." Instantly, he shrank back from his words, realizing he might have crossed a line, despite not being aware of what that may be; the man across from him seemed to draw them out with his very presence, and he found himself intensely wary of angering him.

"Still hot-headed as ever, I see." Chris thought something about that remark was familiar, but he didn't have time to sit on it. "How are you feeling?"

"Excuse me… Feeling?"

"Yes, right now. You're sweating some." Chris didn't have an answer, so he took the honors. "It's like war. Except there is no war, and you're alone with yourself, going mad, and no one can feel or know it but you." The blond looked hard at Chris, then, noncommittally, turned back to the Chris' files, slowly thumbing through them. "It's just adrenalin. You'll adapt and it will become less."

Chris waited a moment, letting the quiet come again. He shifted, finding it hard to keep one position for long. "You seem to know what you're talking about," he dared, then continued, "They told me not to ask you a lot of questions, but if anyone can answer them, you can. I'm to be honest, I'm real tired of waiting around."

"Did they?" the man asked conversationally, still occupied with the papers on his desk. "Well, I did request you here to see what sorts you were in. I don't see why a few questions would hurt."

Chris almost jumped out of his chair with his eagerness. Finally, someone was going to indulge him; he couldn't fucking believe it. But suddenly he felt a little sick, because he was going to get some of those answers he'd been afraid of. Or maybe it was just that weird feeling making his head funny. Seemed a good place to start.

"Alright, what's wrong with me? I mean, I know this isn't normal."

"You're correct. The human body cannot manufacture and sustain that kind of epinephrine level. Your body, however, produces a different hormone similar to epinephrine--that is adrenalin--called epinephrine B. Unlike its naturally occurring sister, epinephrine B is psychoactive, extremely so. The cons are you're more alert and responsive, stronger, but the hypersensitivity can lead to a lengthy recuperation time afterwards. Partially do to the endurance boost it allows you. And obviously, the psychoactive effects can skew your perception and morality. Not something you want occurring while on an adrenalin trip, I assure you."

Chris drank in every word, even the ones he didn't understood. He thought he had the gist. Be he wasn't sure what it implied. "Okay…so if 'normal' folks don't produce this artificial hormone, why am I? I get stuck with the wrong needle? Or maybe that's what all these tests have been about—I'm some guinea pig."

The man let Chris finish, locking eyes with him again at last. "Nothing of the sort. You are a victim of accidental exposure. Not to the hormone, but to what causes it. It's not dangerous though, if one takes the right precautions, and we have for you. In fact, you've done remarkably well. You're, as I've always known you were, remarkably resilient, mentally and physically." The man lingered a moment, and Chris wasn't sure if it was hesitation or not. He couldn't read his face. "I didn't want to isolate you. But your restoration, and probably the lives of some of my staff, counted on."

"Oh, well I hope you weren't too mortified. Wouldn't want that sort of emotional trauma on your shoulders"—and Chris thought he saw for the first time, the man's face change, and it filled him with a sense of dread. He quickly put any notion of playing the man like he had Williams on the back burner in exchange for staring off to an obscure corner of the room, shaking his leg.

Wesker watched this all transpire with great interest, seeing bits and pieces of the old Chris he remembered soaring to the surface. The nostalgia was almost overwhelming, if he were the sort to be overwhelmed. Still, it was something of awe to have the soldier sitting before him, so simply in his office. He wondered if when the man recovered fully, as he was sure he would, if he'd have hell to pay. He was sure he was going to have a real handful, either way. Christopher, he'd learned, held hard to grudges.

"Is that all, then?"

Chris jerked his head up when he was addressed.

"No…" Chris tried to relax, leaning back in the chair, which was pretty comfortable once he noticed, and set his head on the back of it at a cant. "What really happened? What caused me to be like this…Who are you?" Chris sat up quickly, overcome with frustration. He buried his face in the palm of his arm that was propped on the rest, and shook, still feeling his heart hammering. "Damn it! I know I know who you are, it's there, but I can't grasp it. Do you know what it's like, _feeling_ the history between yourself and someone, but not knowing if they're supposed to be the friend or enemy? You know there's something important, and—"

The man at the desk watched Chris' knuckles turn white, and he let him sort out his feelings, or at least quell them. Then—"Actually, I do. We're not so different. I hadn't known it would happen, but I wasn't very better off a few years back. I couldn't remember then, but it was July 25th, 1998, the day after the mansion incident in the Arklay Mountains. It was a fresh start for me though, albeit not an easy one. A beginning. Do you remember?"

Chris had looked up, brows knit in concentration. "Yeah, I remember, in the news. The Arklay Research Facility. Yeah, that was what got Umbrella in the hot seat. And…" Wesker waited. Chris' mind thrummed with the information he'd been given. Tiny details, still too out of context to make sense of, were floating into is consciousness. Made his head hurt, real bad.

"I think that's enough for now," he heard the man saying, rising from his desk. Chris was visibly shaken, he could tell, and an information overload could cause a much undesired relapse in Chris' progress—both of their progress. Chris of course didn't want to accept that logic, and looked ready to plead that the Director divulge more.

At least he would have, but the man was walking towards him, and Chris had the most primal urge to flee, maybe fight if he'd be a little more ignorant. It only amounted to him doing nothing at all but going rigid with indecision. His skin crawled and his hair stood on end.

The blond was closer now, close enough that Chris could see his thin, tightly drawn lips and arching cheekbones set on either side of a sharp nose. The dim room cast shadows on the man's stark white face that Chris found truly ghastly, black suit and glasses harsh against the bright of his skin and hair. And he just kept coming so leisurely, without any inhibitions, even though Chris willed him top stop, wanting to say it, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Something about the man wasn't right, just wasn't human—he walked too smoothly and quietly as if Chris was seeing a ghost, and the man wasn't really there at all.

Right in front of him, he'd stopped. At least his feet had, because he was leaning in closer to Chris, reaching towards his face with that calculating gaze, the one that didn't offer any clues as to what the man planned, and if he should be still or protect himself. He opted for the latter, swinging out and filling his hand collide with flesh. He'd done it without thinking, and now he couldn't believe it had happened. The Director had recoiled back, by choice more than recoil, really. He just stood there, perhaps surprised, perhaps not.

"I'm sorry—" Chris choked and stood, knocking the chair back as he moved. The Director was just standing there as if nothing had happened. And maybe it would have convinced Chris too, if a pair of glasses weren't on the floor, one lens loose; the man squinting into the light like it hurt his eyes. Oh, his eyes…

Chris was looking into the pits of his sockets where they burned like fires, like that mouth of the volcano in his dream, choking up embers, burning his skin. They both burned like that, or maybe he'd really lost it, was seeing some crazy shit now.

No, Chris was definitely not like this guy. Now he knew he hated him. He didn't remember why, not yet, but he hated this man more than anything. The feeling had come back to him before the reason.

"I can't stand you," he hissed between his teeth, starting to turn for the door.

But a hand caught his wrist, then another caught the fist he'd made before he could even draw it back. It all happened so fast, and now he was physically subdued, pinned painfully against the wall, feet somewhere above the ground; and yet he was still only face-level with his attacker. He'd not noticed his height sitting, and it made him feel small. Pissed him off. He started to talk, but a forearm, the one with the hand holding his wrist, was firm against his windpipe. He felt the pressure rising in his face, all with minimal effort from the blond's side.

"For a moment, I thought you remembered. But you don't. You're just being stubborn, careless Chris, never thinking before you go rushing into trouble. Brave, stupid—infuriating." Chris felt the man press down on his throat for emphasis, and he gagged, thrashing his legs until it loosened again. "But I guess I was careless, too, wasn't I? Look at you now… It's like looking into a mirror. That epinephrine B has a kick to it, doesn't it? You're all a mess now."

"N-no."

"Hmm?"

"That sh-shit's got nothing to do with this."

"You can't honestly differentiate that sort of thing right now. Part of the cons of psychoactive hormones, I'm afraid. No harm in a little test just to see, though."

Suddenly, the pressure came clean off Chris' neck, and he slid down the wall, back to his feet where he would have collapsed had he not been caught between the wall and the Director himself. He thought he was letting him go, but when he tried to squeeze past, the weight of the blond only came against him more tightly. Chris felt near panicked, had it not for his anger taking precedence.

"Let me go," he said shakily, knowing he wouldn't comply, but needing to say it all the same. "I need to go. Let me go."

The taller of the two men observed, knowing full well what the other was suffering. He wondered if he'd been so out of sorts himself, and pitied the people who dealt with him then. He supposed Nurse Carol deserved a little more recognition for her efforts.

"I won't hurt you. Quiet," he told Chris as he pushed a little more to him, his lean so gradual that Chris hadn't, at first, been aware of it. And when he was, it had been his body that had alerted him. His stormy eyes had rounded and darted up to the blond's face, perplexed and terrified. Anger had all too quickly taken a back seat, the dramatic mood shifts tell-tale of the hormone surging through his body, prompting survival and whatever state of mind and mood best suited the situation.

Chris felt long fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp soothingly. And another hand had cusped the back of his neck, squeezing and pushing his head forward, leaving his own arms free. But they were only limp at his side. The man had shrugged off the shoulder of his suit jacket and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, letting it hang loose from his neck. This confused Chris all the more when his face was maneuvered into the other's exposed skin, and he thought to lean way. But it never made it past a thought, because his mind was slowing and his body was quieting. The scent filled his nose, and he remembered a letter, how much better that smell had been when he'd wanted it and felt safe, could indulge. Everything about it was right. Nothing else mattered.

"Let your body recognize mine. We're one in the same."

The voice was low and sultry, inflection Cheshire with a gentle tease that baited his ears. He'd barely heard the words, barely responded with a half-hearted "why?"

"Because I was not careful then," Chris heard the man pant against his ear. Something whispered in the back of his mind that neither was careful now, but he was wrong. Every squeeze to the back of his neck and breath to his ear was not without purpose. With deft hands and lips that needed to do little more than whisper to and worry his ear, plant a few carefully executed kisses against his neck, Chris had spiraled down into a state of utter _hunger_. He was consumed by it, and the blond felt that hunger hard against his thigh as Chris rolled his hips once, twice, groaning with how good it was, that single sensation that practically had him in vertigo.

"I'm going to fuck you," Chris heard the blond warn.

"Yeah," was all Chris managed, not consenting so much as responding for the sake of just that. A chuckle, long and deep, rang in his ears, making a chill creep up his spine, even through the heat of his arousal.

And then, the pressure came away from him and he crumpled, shivering as his mind shook, trying to gain some semblance of normality; what he should be thinking and feeling.

"See, Chris—you're a mess. An easily played one, at that; and I know you were once bull-headed about affections from men. I know you still are, and will be again. This will be a fun memory to bring up in the coming future, to be sure." He'd moved to his desk, reaching the intercom system. "We're finished. Please escort Redfield back to his room."

Chris, sorting his tangled thoughts, couldn't believe it. What had he just done? He wasn't sure to be angry with himself or the man—monster, he remembered—before him. He hadn't time to say anything before two men of considerable size came in to 'escort' him out. The last he saw of the Director was the epitome of normality: he'd been at his desk, smug and indifferent to events previous as he studied something on his computer, mentioning idly to be sure that one of the men took with them Chris' files and ID. Briefly, Chris wondered if he'd imagined it all, still too stunned to shrug off the men walking him back to his cell. Maybe he needed sleep…Yeah, that seemed right. After a cold shower and some self loathing.


	3. Almost Normal

A/N: Yeah, slow updates. Haven't been in the swing of things lately, as far as anything inspired goes. Had trouble getting this one finished, but enjoy all the same, and thanks to all the supporting reviews and those who have brought to my attention those slippery little mistakes.

**RELATIVE GRAYS**

**Chapter Three: Almost Normal**

A stolid doctor stood quietly, watching the screen of the heart monitor. Connected to it was Chris, covered in numerous electrode patches. And he wasn't sure why, but he felt anxious. He thought how cold the room was and how badly he wanted to put his shirt back on; and then his mind was quickly on to the next thought, eyes flicking from the doctor, to the ceiling, and back again. He twitched his fingers against the bed.

"Hold still," the doctor reminded him coolly, not looking away from the monitor. Nurse Carol was off to the side, offering him a composed but comforting smile when Chris looked to her for it. He didn't understand what they were watching for, just as much as he didn't understand why the situation felt so foreboding. It wasn't. Anxiety rolled through him in waves again, and his heart hammered. The lucid feeling of the organ in his chest and his awareness of it made Chris uncomfortable.

"Alright. Let's get you up then. Carol." Nurse Carol nodded at the doctor's prompt and moved to peel off the electrode patches and dispose of them before helping Chris up. He shivered when her warm hands touched his bicep, remembering how cold he was.

"Feeling jittery?" Carol asked him.

"Yeah."

"Don't worry, it's quite normal. Otherwise, you're still healthy as a horse. Big as one, too," she added thoughtfully. He'd raised a brow. It was something he used to be proud of, but now it felt oddly insignificant. Didn't seem he was going to be brawling his way out of any sticky situations these days. Not that he still didn't want to land a hook in the Director's stomach.

"We're going to put you on a prescription," the doctor said suddenly, his voice loud compared to Carol's. "You'll be on it for two weeks. The first, you'll take a pill once in the morning and once midday, with your lunch. The second week, you'll drop down to one in the morning." Chris didn't have time to ask questions as the doctor disappeared out the door in a hurry.

"Get dressed, and I'll be back in a moment. The Director thinks you'll be fine to move to your new room today," Carol informed him, and Chris immediately scowled causing Carol to pause and look at him. "You don't seem too excited about it."

"I haven't exactly had the most inspiring day."

Nurse Carol raised her brows and waited for an explanation, but none came; for once she was the one left in the dark. But she didn't pry further and left the room to retrieve the man's prescription. She had her own suspicions, anyways.

After the woman left, Chris gladly changed out of the hospital gown, for the first time appreciating the drab gray clothes he'd been issued since he'd woken up in the place. The pants were a little too short and the shirt too tight (they'd told him they didn't have a larger size), but at least his ass didn't hang out.

He sucked in a shaky breath and rubbed at his chest, willing his heart to settle down. His body seemed increasingly alien to him. When Nurse Carol returned, they left the room and made their way back to solitary for the last time—thank god, Chris thought.

"What are these?" he asked, looking at the small bottle of pills he'd been given.

"Narcotics. They'll help you settle in."

"Settle in? What kind of place requires narcotics to 'settle in'?"

"It's to deal with your hypersensitivity. It's something you'll have to ease into and once again, something everyone goes through to some extent."

Chris stopped suddenly, putting an arm out to block Nurse Carol from walking ahead. "Yeah, okay, but no one has explained what started all this. If I'm going through some kind of freak puberty, I want to know why."

Carol looked stunned a moment, then she pushed, gently, Chris' arm aside. "It's the hormone epinephri—"

"But how did that start?" Chris interrupted, feeling impatient and increasingly irritated. "No one around this damned place ever gets to the point. Do all of you have to have a degree in bull shit to get hired here or something?"

Carol only sighed, and her seemingly limitless patience served to annoy Chris even more. "You've been 'different' for a long time. You probably thought your stamina and strength was your own good fortune, but I'm afraid that's not so. I've seen your records, and I have to say, you've had enough time to put your advantages to use. Including that bulk of yours. You've done things anyone else wouldn't have been able to, and it made your previous career a success, at least while it lasted. Ironic that their best man's accomplishments were possible because of the very 'terrorism' they fought against, but that's nonsense. It's a shame they kept you ignorant for so long. You were quite a thorn in our Director's side, and I'm honestly surprised he didn't do something about it before. But I guess it made it easier for him to keep an eye on you, too. You should thank him the next time you see him."

"'Thank' him!? I don't owe that asshole anything. If we were enemies in the past, it was for a good reason. My dreams are always filled with people hurt, dying. And it always comes back to him. I know it's him. And I don't care what excuses he has for doing it, there's no reason that makes something like that right. It doesn't matter what you say."

Chris' heart was pounding in his chest again, and he was surprised how angry he felt by the time he'd stopped talking. He wanted to shake the truth out of her, everyone. For a brief moment, he was afraid he might lash out at the woman when she set a hand on his shoulder. But instead, he shuttered and closed his eyes.

"Chris," she'd said in a tone that was uncharacteristically genuine for a nurse, "the world is too intricate to see it in black and white. It may make decisions easier, but if you want to really understand, you need to see the grays too—if you want to understand him. I don't expect you to feel differently, but at least try to see things from all sides."

Chris moved out from under Nurse Carol's hand and started further down the hall, at a loss for words. He couldn't make sense of them and didn't really care to then.

They arrived at his cell in silence, and he quickly found his bag of things, all of which were his but had been given to him since arriving—not at all sentimental—then they left. Nurse Carol watched him closely the entire while, aware of what was going on inside the man. It wasn't unlike what had happened before, and caused a deep nostalgia in her.

On his way out of the cell, he paused to glance back in from the doorway. He hated that room, and he hated the man responsible for keeping him there. 'I don't want to understand a person like that.' And then Chris turned his thoughts away from anything having to do with him, even though the man seemed to be everywhere. But it made his heart sink once the rage dissipated. He preferred being angry. It made more sense.

***************************

Chris had remained quiet for the sum of their walk to the elevator. As they climbed a level and before they reached the next floor, Chris dared a conversation that had been nagging at him.

"I have a sister."

Nurse Carol looked at him in surprise from the corner of her eyes, then back to the doors of the elevator, seeming anxious for them to open. "Yes."

"I want to see her, Claire. Claire Redfield." No, Carol was a reasonable person. He needed to strengthen his argument. "I mean, it would do me some good to see someone I know, outside of this place. So I know there is still a world left. Some family left." Chris waited, dreading a reply.

"Chris, now isn't the time for--"

"It's fine, I get it," Chris snapped, swallowing any hope of being allowed the luxury of family. He'd know not to ask, but couldn't stop himself. The world outside seemed all the more distant. But then, to his surprise:

"She's fine. You'll just have to believe me for now, but she is fine."

"Won't they be wondering where I am?" Chris blurted out excitedly. Yes, they had to be looking for him! It was only a matter of time, surely. He had friends on the outside.

"No," was all Carol said in reply, face deadpan and unreadable. Chris immediately felt sick. He couldn't understand what that meant. He'd remembered his sister well enough to know she'd put herself in danger for him—he'd do the same for her. So then why…

A small 'beep' preceded the doors opening, and they stepped out of the elevator into what he'd heard called the Academy Ward on several occasions. It was the ward he was going to be staying on and, from what he could tell by the frequency of people they passed, where most of the facility's population was occupied. They weren't dressed like him, and they weren't dressed like nurses and doctors which made up the sparse occupants of the lower ward, a floor that was primarily a hospice of some sort. Chris wasn't sure if there were other floors. He was troubled by the lack of windows he'd seen, and figured they might be in sub-levels of the facility. He wondered how deep in the earth he was and where, which floor was ground level and how easy it would be to breech it and escape. The thought seemed impossible, and he let the idea slip away. For now.

"Here we are," Carol said, breaking his concentration to his benefit. "Room C9. You'll have less traffic since you're in hall C, which you'll be thankful for later."

Chris was surprised at the place as the door was unlocked and he was let inside. Carol had called them dormitories, but he'd expected less. It was much more appropriately a single-bedroom apartment. Despite his foreboding mood, he couldn't help but feel the slightest bit relieved that the dorm wasn't another "white prison" for him to slowly slip into insanity within.

The bedroom was further back, nestled in a room-like alcove with the main area being a decently spacious lounge. There was a medium-sized bathroom with a walk-in shower and a small fridge.

"There's no kitchen," Chris commented from another room.

"All the cooking is done by the chefs in the cafeteria. You're allowed to bring food and drink back to keep in the fridge, however. You'll be keeping up with your own living space now, including your clothes. There's a small closet where your new wardrobe is already waiting. You'll have a few days to get used to the place as well as learn the ward, until your schedule is decided."

Chris turned around and searched Nurse Carol's face for some sign of humor, but found none. "You mean I can just…walk around? Alone?"

"Yes, but only on this ward, so don't assume you—Chris!" Carol moved to block the man's exit, despite that he could easily shove her aside. He didn't.

"I knew there was a catch," he said, frowning.

"Only one: Unpack. You have the rest of today to explore. No need to rush." She offered the man a hard look that gave him the distinct impression of a chastising mother.

"Alright, fine," he said, raising his hands in resignation.

"Oh, and food stops being served after six, so make sure you eat beforehand." And then the woman left him, for the first time without the sound of a lock latching behind her.

Chris was so anxious to snoop around the ward that he'd barely managed to put things away. He stuffed the empty duffle bag under his bed and bolted for the door—then stopped and looked down at himself. He still looked like an inmate fresh out of the loony bin.

Reconsidering things, he stepped back into the room and went to rummage through the closet where his clothes were. He'd been surprised to see that they were indeed like everyone else's, and even more surprised that they were all in his size.

The bulk of the clothes were like what he'd seen already: button-up shirts with collar, white, and dark grey slacks with optional jacket that reminded him of the semi-formal dress back at S.T.A.R.S. He remembered being an officer, the paperwork he hated, the badge he loved. But there were two others that reminded him of fatigues, bar the green—or any color besides gray. The plain shirt and loose pants, boots, all were too familiar. Had he been in the military too? And why were these uniforms here? Maybe he was at some military installation now, but it didn't feel that way.

After a shower and a change, Chris finally ventured out of the dorm; though now that he'd finally taken the first few steps outside, by himself, he felt lost. Excited, but lost. The hall was long and quiet, reminding him of the interior of a hotel. Or at least, a hotel version of a place he had never planned to visit a second time. Nostalgia tried to creep over him again, but he forced himself to walk and keep his eyes(and thoughts) busy.

A few turns lead him through several similar hallways, giving him an idea of how many people might be living in the dorms. There weren't many, and he roughly estimated there might be 30 at most, meaning the ward was still small enough that a new face would be recognized. Unfortunately for him.

The dorms were entered on the farthest side from his own room, by A Hall through either of two doors, both of which required a swipe of an ID card to open. He looked at the card reader apprehensively and fumbled in his pockets for his ID. But just as he was about to slide it through, the lock was released and the door pulled open; someone said "bye," then slammed straight into him. He was about to fall when a hand steadied him by the shoulder.

"Whoooa, I'm sorry. Didn't see anyone coming out. Well, I wasn't looking—but yeah. Hey…"

Chris looked up, still stunned, and stared at the person that was talking to him. The man was about his height, only an inch or two shy, with contemplative blue eyes and light hair. At least what he could tell—the hair was buzzed short making him look clean-cut military. He looked like the men he'd been in basic training with, some of the ones he went off to serve beside, though briefly.

_Yeah, that's right…The Air Force._

"You're new, aren't you? I was told we were getting some fresh meat, or maybe less fresh. You're older than the usual. I'm Nathan. Chris, right?" Chris only nodded. Nathan raised his brows then waved a hand in front of his face. "Man, I hope they didn't let you up early. You okay?"

"Uh, yeah, just…" Chris shook himself out of his surprise and accepted the fact that he would be interacting with society again, or at least some version of it. People that hopefully weren't doctors and therapists. "Sorry, it's just that all this is a little—"

"Yeah, yeah, you're fucking out of solitary! Holy shit, you can walk around, watch TV, jack off in private. I know. But since this is your first time in Academy, you should let me give you a few pro-tips and save you the trouble. We're neighbors, after all, and I won't be bringing brownies to your door, so let's get the intros over with."

"Neighbors?"

"You're C9, right? The dorm next to me was empty, so I assumed—"

"Oh, yeah. That's me."

"I was going to change first, but I don't guess you'll mind," Nathan said with a wide grin after looking down at his gray tank top which was dark with sweat. Chris noticed it was the same style as the two uniforms back in his closet as well.

"Some kind of training?"

"Yeah, I just got the wrist-lock from hell." Nathan lifted up the front of his shirt and sniffed it uncertainly. "Guess I should have kept my mouth shut."

"Combatives training? Is this a military installation?" Chris looked at Nathan expectantly, but Nathan only straightened his shirt noncommittally and laughed.

"Damn, you really are green." Nathan shook his head and motioned for Chris to follow him back through the door from which he'd come. "And yeah, all students here learn systema, and that includes you. Anyways, this facility isn't military jurisdiction."

Chris was taken aback a moment. They took a few steps in silence as Chris considered what Nathan had said.

"Why is Russian hand-to-hand being taught?"

"So you can kick ass, why else? Though you'll probably find you'll be _getting_ your ass kicked more often than not. Instructor Korzhev has no mercy and thinks you're better for it. Probably one reason he got stationed here, but I'm sure being Spetsnaz helped. Everyone in this place has their talents though, or they wouldn't be here. The Director will only have the best. What'd you do to catch his eye?"

"I'm not sure," Chris mumbled.

"What, did you forget? If you don't want to say, suit yourself, old man." Nathan gestured to the door they were approaching. "Here's the cafeteria."

Nathan pulled open the doors and strolled through, Chris following suit, though far less gingerly. He was stricken upon entering. It wasn't an unpleasant place—it was just so _much_ place, all at once even if its size was diminutive of the word "cafeteria"; to him, it seemed more of a large and open café with dark round tables, their heavy chairs situated both out in the open for conversationalists and in corners for the more private contenders. Though more sterile than the baroque halls of the academy, the cafeteria didn't suffocate him with the scent of cleaners and a spectrum of gray, namely white. There was a main bar where hot, fresh food was being served and a separate one adjacent on an island for drinks. Another place was situated against the wall for condiments and supplies, fastidiously organized and stocked. Chris wondered if the staff on this floor was as elusive as the one below them, or maybe one in the same.

Nathan noticed Chris had been standing awkwardly by the door, gazing with a stupid look on his face before he pushed him to send the man off balance enough so that his mind would descend from whatever alternate plane it had vacationed to. "Smells good, don't it? If this isn't proof enough we're not military, I don't know what is." Chris only glowered and followed his acquaintance further in.

He was finding it hard to focus and it had little to do with the food, despite his growling stomach. It shouldn't have surprised him, but they weren't the only ones in the cafeteria. It wasn't crowded, but he might not have stood it otherwise. A strange thing happened. His mind had quickly pulled out of its haze and become keenly aware of the others in the room, subconsciously flagging each as a point of interest, maybe a threat. Their conversation grew louder in his ears, and those that didn't talk scraped utensils against plastic plates and leaned in their chairs until they protested. It was a collective uproar in his head, trapped by the walls of the room like the clamor was in his head. No relief, just more and more noise. Now, he swore he could taste the food on the air, all the different flavors coalescing into the distinct flavor of vomit which perfumed his nose as well.

Chris lifted a hand to rub away the throbbing in his temples, but when it didn't help, only shaded his eyes, wanting to remove the offending sensations or at least hide from them. He was barely aware of himself as he moved back and outside of the cafeteria, guided by stern hands. Only when the sensation ebbed did he look up to find himself in the hallway, staring into a worried face.

"What the hell was that? You were white as a sheet."

Chris felt back behind him for a wall, and instantly sagged against it when his fingers met solid surface. "Too much," he mumbled, still letting his head clear. Nathan had kneeled in front of him, a hand on his shoulder still. Chris tried to focus on that point of contact and the sound of a voice, narrowing his thoughts. It seemed to help. And yet it was strange, how lucid it was. The warmth of the hand, the deep lilt of a voice, that familiar scent which indulged his interest. _Familiar…_

"I don't know, but maybe you should chill in your room today and eat there. I'll bring you the good stuff—"

Nathan had started to get up but Chris grabbed his wrist, stopping him. He felt the arm flex under his grip, and when he looked up, he was surprised to see the easy-going expression on Nathan's face exchanged with one of tension. "Wait, didn't you…" but Chris wasn't sure what he wanted to ask anymore. The younger man's expression had jarred him, so he let him go and watched him slip back into the cafeteria.

_What the hell is going on with me…?_

_ ***********************_

The room was quiet, save for the sound of eating and the slide of styrofoam against wood. Half-eaten Salisbury steak and a roll sat idly in his tray. He felt too full of questions to eat. Too many anxieties. 

_ Nathan was the one who broke the silence._

"Don't like steak?"

"It's fine."

Nathan leaned back on the couch and bounced his leg a moment, debating on where the line had been drawn between them. 

_ "Hey."_

"What," Chris said distantly. Nathan was hesitating again.

"Did you get injured? I mean did something happen that you didn't make it out of?" Chris looked at Nathan, brows drawn together. "You seem military, so maybe there was an accident, and—" 

_"What kind of question is that? Clearly I made it if I'm sitting here now. Are you asking if I died?" Chris stood suddenly. "I think you should go. I'm going to rest."_

Chris let the scene play out again in his mind, looking for some mistake, some misunderstanding. It didn't make sense. He had to of misunderstood, but if he didn't, then he wasn't sure he wanted an explanation.

Chris sat up from the bed and glanced over to the small desk across from it. He stood and walked over to it, opening the drawer where he'd placed his forms, papers, a map of the ward, and his ID now that his adventures were done for the day. And the letter, which he now found easily in his hands again. It made him angry to look at now, but there was still that underlying desire to hold it, read it. The words were formal, but much kinder than the man he'd met whose name was signed at the bottom. Surely there were two Albert Weskers, and he'd had the misfortune of meeting the evil counterpart.

But in his heart, he knew it wasn't true. He knew they were one in the same, he knew that the man in his dreams was none other, and he knew that he'd been haunted by that same singular being for as long as he could remember. He knew he was someone prone to acts of cruelty justified by reasons Chris never understood nor believed existed. And yet, Wesker was a man that rarely acted in favor of his feelings. Perhaps his thoughts were cruel instead, but then Chris wondered what practical reason the man could conjure up to have him here, alive.

Chris looked at the letter, reading through it again, lingering on some of the last lines.

_When you're in a state to understand, I'll talk. The truth may not grant you the reprieve you wanted, but it can be no heavier than the secrets and misconceptions we've born between us since the beginning. I'm afraid we both no longer have that luxury. The consequences of old decisions are far greater than I'd anticipated._


End file.
